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Once you're a Motown artist, you're always a Motown artist.

quote by Smokey Robinson
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The mother and the artist

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of wonderfully emollient freshness; every
unfurling instant of impregnably magnificent existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of spellbindingly undefeated innocence; every
unfurling instant of symbiotically pristine existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of timelessly unconquerable truth; every unfurling
instant of bounteously magnanimous existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unfathomably unfettered creativity; every
unfurling instant of timelessly burgeoning existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of royally triumphant resplendence; every
unfurling instant of unconquerably majestic existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of eternally exhilarating vivaciousness; every
unfurling instant of redolently insuperable existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unbelievably ameliorating optimism; every
unfurling instant of marvelously benign existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of brilliantly liberated camaraderie; every
unfurling instant of iridescently inscrutable existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unshakably virgin righteousness; every
unfurling instant of beautifully untainted existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of uninhibitedly heavenly frolic; every unfurling
instant of tantalizingly sensuous existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of compassionately humanitarian friendship; every
unfurling instant of magically mitigating existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of miraculously everlasting freshness; every
unfurling instant of invincibly coalescing existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of pricelessly ubiquitous oneness; every unfurling

[...] Read more

poem by Nikhil Parekh
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Don't Come Around Here

How do you know when it's over
How do you know where did it all go wrong
Can I embrace the perfect stranger
How do you know and where did it all go wrong
Cause lately could you tell
I lost the only one
Could you tell
Stoke the funeral
So now it's just me, myself and I
Don't come around here (don't come around here)
Just to see me cryin' (see me cryin')
Don't come around here (don't come around here)
Just because you can (because you can, yeah, yeah)
Cause you can
How do you find tinsel Motown
How do you find it if it's the only one
Dear, love is strange the right emotion
How do you find if it's the only one
Cause lately (lately) could you tell (could you tell)
I lost the only one
Could you tell (could you tell, could you tell)
Stoke the funeral
So now it's just me, myself and I
Don't come around here (don't come around here)
Just to see me cryin' (see me cryin')
Don't come around here (don't come around here)
Just because you can (because you can, yeah, yeah)
Give me Motown (tinsel Motown, lady)
Tinsel Motown (one emotion maybe)
One emotion (with a perfect stranger)
Tinsel Motown (me, myself and I)
Don't come around here
Just to see me cryin'
Don't come around here
Just because you can
Don't come around here (don't come around here)
Just to see me cryin' (see me cryin')
Please don't come around here (don't come around here)
Just because you can (because you can, yeah, yeah)
Cause you can
Don't come around here (don't come around here)
Just to see me cryin' (see me cryin')
Please don't watch me cryin'
Please don't watch me cryin', yeah
Cause you can
Don't come around here
Please don't come around here
Just to see me cryin'

song performed by Rod Stewart
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The Motown Song

(larry john mcnally)
Bring over some of your old motown records
Well put the speakers in the window and well go
On the roof and listen to the miracles
Echo to the alley down below
Lets dance together just for the night
Lets dont worry about the future or nothin else
cause just like the musics sayin you gotta take chances
Go ahead just do it and trust yourself
Theres a soul in the city
Watching over us tonight
Theres a soul in the city
Saying everythings gonna be all right
So bring over some of your old motown records
Well put the speakers in the window and well go
On the roof and listen to the miracles
Echo to the alley down below
They wish us luck
But they think were just dreaming
Lets prove them wrong baby
cause you know what luck is
Luck is believing youre lucky
Thats all and showing just a little bit of faith
Theres a soul in the city
Watching over us I swear
Theres a soul in the city
Theres a whole world waiting out there
Listen
I got plans for us
Playing like a skip on a record
Through my head all night long
But when we walk that darkened stairway
And step out on the roof
I know what were feeling cant be wrong
Bring over some of your old motown records
Well put the speakers in the window and well go
On the roof and listen to the miracles
Echo to the alley down below
Bring over some of your old motown records
Well put the speakers in the window and well go
On the roof and listen to the miracles
Echo to the alley down below
let the temptations sing it one time
Bring over some of you old motown records
Well put the speakers in the window and well go
On the roof and listen to the miracles
Echo to the alley down below

song performed by Rod Stewart
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Motown (In Remembrance Of...)

Where are the sounds of Motown now?
That innovative and daring reach to be different!
Nothing today can captivate...
Except Beyoncé who tintillates imaginations!
Taking her creativity to fresh and new dimensions.
Blazing with excitement that awakens,
A dormant void of cookie cutter mass produced
Sameness that lacks snap and crackle!

Where are the sounds of Motown now?
There is no 'beat' today that repeats or come close,
To those Brewster Project folks...
Who toasted all of Detroit back then!
Every released song was a 'gem' it seemed.
Evoked from the mind of Berry Gordy's dream!
And today we listen to celebrated crap!
From 'ghetto stars' who make millions...
Lifting 'originality' tweaked off stolen tracks!

I wish that Motown could come back!
Inspiring with a motivation...
The writers, singers and producers
Holland-Dozier and Holland
Certainly did not lack!
When the sounds of Motown were around,
There seemed to be less crime to be found....
And more hand claps!

I wish that Motown could come back!
Like those things that brought good feelings...
Gone!
Never to be time-released,
But forever time-capsule trapped!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Action Man In A Motown Suit

Lets stay a while and watch him
Hes moving into action man
Hes looking good but maybe
Hes in the wrong direction man
But he wanna get a little, get a little
Every night, get a little, get a little
Something for his appetite
Everybody needs to have a recreation
Everybody needs a little comfort for the soul
Youll never make it in a motown suit
No way to fake it man theyre not your roots
No, youll never make it in a motown suit
You cant be a drummer without rhythm
Cant blow your horn if you aint blue
Some folks they just aint got it in 'em
Tell me boy now does that sound like you
Hes cruising with the singles
Down the margarita bar
Hes boring to distraction
Pushing words and talking stars
(whats your sign)
Hes gotta take a little, take a little
On the side, make a little, make a little
Something for his appetite
Everybody needs a little lubrication
Someone with imagination got to break the ice
Youll never make it in a motown suit
No way to fake it man theyre not your roots
No, youll never make it in a motown suit
You cant be a lover without rhythm
Dont blow your horn if you aint true
No point in playing valentino
Hes a sham and brother so are you
You cant be a drummer without rhythm
Cant blow your horn if you aint blue
Some folks they just aint got it in 'em
Tell me boy now does that sound like you

song performed by 10 Cc
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Action Man In Motown Suit

Let's stay a while and watch him
He's moving into action man
He's looking good but maybe
He's in the wrong direction man
But he wanna get a little, get a little
Every night, get a little, get a little
Something for his appetite
Everybody needs to have a recreation
Everybody needs a little comfort for the soul
You'll never make it in a motown suit
No way to fake it man they're not your roots
No, you'll never make it in a motown suit
You can't be a drummer without rhythm
Can't blow your horn if you ain't blue
Some folks they just ain't got it in 'em
Tell me boy now does that sound like you
He's cruising with the singles
Down the margarita bar
He's boring to distraction
Pushing words and talking stars
(What's your sign)
He's gotta take a little, take a little
On the side, make a little, make a little
Something for his appetite
Everybody needs a little lubrication
Someone with imagination got to break the ice
You'll never make it in a motown suit
No way to fake it man they're not your roots
No, you'll never make it in a motown suit
You can't be a lover without rhythm
Don't blow your horn if you ain't true
No point in playing Valentino
He's a sham and brother so are you
You can't be a drummer without rhythm
Can't blow your horn if you ain't blue
Some folks they just ain't got it in 'em
Tell me boy now does that sound like you

song performed by 10 Cc
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Lisbeth and the Artist

Lisbeth stands watching
The artist as he prepares
To sketch. Her elder sisters
Stand in shadows whispering.
Her younger sister plays
With her doll on the floor.
Their father said to do as
The artist instructed and
Don't misbehave or be rude.
The artist stares hard his
Dark eyes searching their
Every move and expression
And body gesture. The elder
Girls mutter in shadows
Their hands over their mouths
Their blue eyes like shallow
Pools. Ready? The artist
Asks putting charcoal to
Paper his fingers blackening.
Lisbeth says just as we are?
The artist nods. His grim
Features express do not disturb.
The youngest sister plays
Ignoring the artist her eyes set
On the game at hand. The girls
In shadow turn their profiles
Set to mystery their hands on
Their abdomens like guardians
Of virtue. Lisbeth wonders as
She watches the artist's stiff
Moustache and beard the slow
Movement of his mouth as he
Mouths words and stares hard.
The last artist employed some
Year before younger and less
Brutal in expression and manner
Had drawn them each in private
Rooms and set them down on couch
Or bed and kept their images inside
His head. He was dismissed and the
Drawings destroyed and nothing said.
Lisbeth had thought it just a game
Something done as lover might in
Private corners or lonely spots on
Quiet nights. The artist sketches.
His blackened fingers move and
Made their mark. Their images
Captured. The scene set. One sister
In the shadows yawns the other
Stares in still contempt. Lisbeth

[...] Read more

poem by Terry Collett
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A Nude Artist

A Nude Artist

he says he is a nude artist
because he is naked when he paints

such nakedness has
nothing to do with being a nude artist

a naked artist who paints a cat or a chicken
is not a nude artist

there is no nude cat
thyere is no nude chicken

just paint a naked woman
and he will be called a nude artist

an artist is not an art
he must know that

- Frog Mantra, Accents Publishing,2012 -

poem by Suchoon Mo_
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Peace

Artist - somebody didn't hear me
(What'd he say?)
Artist - formerly known as Prince
You gotta get your peace on
Peace, whoa oh
Peace
That's what we're here for
And not to war
When the war upon people of color thru needles
Designed to disease instead of relieve
When it ceases
I'll be a man of peace
(Say what)
When this mask of vendetta
Like tears on the face of Coretta
Roll down and go away
I'll be happier
(Happier)
I'll be a man of peace
Everybody say!
Peace, whoa oh
Peace
That's what we're here for
(That's what we're here for)
And not to war
When the time that we spend
Watching TV depends on
Whether or not it destroy or transcend
Then I won't need
(I won't, I won't)
Won't need a warranty
When the power of the hour is not yours but is ours
And the faces we see reflect all that we be indeed
There'll be a jubilee
Everybody say
Peace, whoa oh
Peace
That's what we're here for
(That's what we're here for)
And not to war
Bass
(Talkin' about freedom)
The rewards that we share will be based on what's fair
And not the curliness or the thick of our hair
Real competition, if you dare!
Music is our middle name
And we don't wanna play your game
So when the mergers you make are with us
And you take a fair slice of the cake
That we bake then you break

[...] Read more

song performed by Prince
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Value Fever Pitch: An Artist’s Time

Bhoman F Jamhari said

'I am an artist - This does not
mean I will work for free.
I have bills just like you.
Thank you for understanding.'

Polite and to the problematic point.

Anyone who thinks believes
an artist’s time is worthless,
is definitely a person an artist
should avoid; such individuals

cannot comprehend
or remotely understand
aesthetic value of art.

Art takes time to produce.

Vision and artistic skill takes
even longer to realize to attain
expanding horizons. Time costs.

Artists of differing genre value
appreciate each other and art
which suits their temperament.

To create art
is the life blood
of an artist.

The air we breathe
is the home of art.

Creativity is our fevered mind songs
we sing in a legacy of image visions.

What kind of a con artist wants
to steal bread from an artist’s mouth;

therefore limiting the quality quantity
of future works of art, to be produced
by that artist. Answer an enemy of art.

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Fifth Book

AURORA LEIGH, be humble. Shall I hope
To speak my poems in mysterious tune
With man and nature,–with the lava-lymph
That trickles from successive galaxies
Still drop by drop adown the finger of God,
In still new worlds?–with summer-days in this,
That scarce dare breathe, they are so beautiful?–
With spring's delicious trouble in the ground
Tormented by the quickened blood of roots.
And softly pricked by golden crocus-sheaves
In token of the harvest-time of flowers?–
With winters and with autumns,–and beyond,
With the human heart's large seasons,–when it hopes
And fears, joys, grieves, and loves?–with all that strain
Of sexual passion, which devours the flesh
In a sacrament of souls? with mother's breasts,
Which, round the new made creatures hanging there,
Throb luminous and harmonious like pure spheres?–
With multitudinous life, and finally
With the great out-goings of ecstatic souls,
Who, in a rush of too long prisoned flame,
Their radiant faces upward, burn away
This dark of the body, issuing on a world
Beyond our mortal?–can I speak my verse
So plainly in tune to these things and the rest,
That men shall feel it catch them on the quick,
As having the same warrant over them
To hold and move them, if they will or no,
Alike imperious as the primal rhythm
Of that theurgic nature? I must fail,
Who fail at the beginning to hold and move
One man,–and he my cousin, and he my friend,
And he born tender, made intelligent,
Inclined to ponder the precipitous sides
Of difficult questions; yet, obtuse to me,–
Of me, incurious! likes me very well,
And wishes me a paradise of good,
Good looks, good means, and good digestion!–ay,
But otherwise evades me, puts me off
With kindness, with a tolerant gentleness,–
Too light a book for a grave man's reading! Go,
Aurora Leigh: be humble.
There it is;
We women are too apt to look to one,
Which proves a certain impotence in art.
We strain our natures at doing something great,
Far less because it's something great to do,
Than, haply, that we, so, commend ourselves
As being not small, and more appreciable
To some one friend. We must have mediators

[...] Read more

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
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Hymns Of The Marshes.

I. Sunrise.

In my sleep I was fain of their fellowship, fain
Of the live-oak, the marsh, and the main.
The little green leaves would not let me alone in my sleep;
Up-breathed from the marshes, a message of range and of sweep,
Interwoven with waftures of wild sea-liberties, drifting,
Came through the lapped leaves sifting, sifting,
Came to the gates of sleep.
Then my thoughts, in the dark of the dungeon-keep
Of the Castle of Captives hid in the City of Sleep,
Upstarted, by twos and by threes assembling:
The gates of sleep fell a-trembling
Like as the lips of a lady that forth falter `Yes,'
Shaken with happiness:
The gates of sleep stood wide.

I have waked, I have come, my beloved! I might not abide:
I have come ere the dawn, O beloved, my live-oaks, to hide
In your gospelling glooms, -- to be
As a lover in heaven, the marsh my marsh and the sea my sea.

Tell me, sweet burly-bark'd, man-bodied Tree
That mine arms in the dark are embracing, dost know
From what fount are these tears at thy feet which flow?
They rise not from reason, but deeper inconsequent deeps.
Reason's not one that weeps.
What logic of greeting lies
Betwixt dear over-beautiful trees and the rain of the eyes?

O cunning green leaves, little masters! like as ye gloss
All the dull-tissued dark with your luminous darks that emboss
The vague blackness of night into pattern and plan,
So,
(But would I could know, but would I could know,)
With your question embroid'ring the dark of the question of man, --
So, with your silences purfling this silence of man
While his cry to the dead for some knowledge is under the ban,
Under the ban, --
So, ye have wrought me
Designs on the night of our knowledge, -- yea, ye have taught me,
So,
That haply we know somewhat more than we know.

Ye lispers, whisperers, singers in storms,
Ye consciences murmuring faiths under forms,
Ye ministers meet for each passion that grieves,
Friendly, sisterly, sweetheart leaves,
Oh, rain me down from your darks that contain me

[...] Read more

poem by Sidney Lanier
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Joseph's Gloss On God

When Joseph tells his brothers: “I
am not God, ” he perhaps implies
that unlike God he sometimes lies,
and unlike Him, is doomed to die.

The words that Joseph never said
are wrong, as we find out when burned;
God often lies, a lesson learned
from history, and God is dead.

Inspired by a review by Paul Buhle of R. Crumb’s The Whole Book of Genesis, in Forward, October 10,2009 (“In the Image of God: The Ambition of R. Crumb’s Graphic Genesis”:

To say this book is a remarkable volume or even a landmark volume in comic art is somewhat of an understatement. It doesn’t hurt that excerpts of the book appeared during the summer in the New Yorker and that the Hammer Museum in Los Angeles is opening an exhibit of the original drawings from which the book’s contents were adapted. “The Book of Genesis, ” Robert Crumb’s version, nevertheless stands on its own as one of this century’s most ambitious artistic adaptations of the West’s oldest continuously told story.
No comic artist has been more influential than Crumb. In terms of sales, his work is dwarfed by the superheroes and, in comic art prestige. Art Spiegelman, and a short list of others including Alison Bechdel and Marjane Sartrapi may have displaced Crumb. But Crumb’s influence abides and endures in his occasional LP/CD covers, in his volumes of collected work (16 volumes so far and counting) , his artistic prizes and a generation of artists who have incorporated his particular view of humanity.
Surprisingly, his best work in 20 years has actually been in the genre of adaptation, specifically an adaptation of Franz Kafka, dating to the mid 1990s. On that highly curious point, any consideration of this “Genesis, ” as a highly personal comic art, properly begins. Notoriously, Crumb is a gentile who fled from his deeply dysfunctional Delaware family to the Cleveland neighborhood of Harvey Pekar and the arms of the first of two Jewish wives. “Crumb, ” the 1994 film documentary, was in many ways about emotional pain (including a brother doomed to suicide) and his craving for a certain kind of woman, who, although possibly any female with a bemuscled backside, was in fact most likely to be Jewish. She, reality and image, was his consolation. The strips that he drew of Jewish-American life, nevertheless, reworked stereotypes, some funny (he visits Florida with his second wife, and holds a tiny grandfather on his knee) , and some, doubtless, insulting to many readers.
In the pages of “Introducing Kafka, ” Crumb became his fictional protagonist with such depth of insight into the logic of the doomed writer, as well as of Kafka’s famed works, that many readers were simply astonished, this reviewer among them. Kafka is the exemplar par excellence of a type of ambiguous, tortured mittel European Jewish personality as it hovered between faith and uncertainty, shortly before the Holocaust. Not Spiegelman, not Ben Katchor, nor Sharon Rudahl, nor others who drew historical or quasi-historical strips about Jewish history, had taken the characterization as far as Crumb. An earlier escape from Middle American culture had propelled Crumb toward his satirical protagonist Mister Natural, a Zen-like, robed quasi-prophet of the 1970s-80s. Three decades later, Crumb’s robed prophets are far from Zen.
Crumb’s “Genesis” is then perfectly serious and the author wants us to know it. As he says on the cover, “Nothing Left Out! ” Every “beget” from the King James Bible can be found here, along with plenty of scenes censored from previous graphic adaptations. And more prose, in the final “Commentary” segment of the book, than non-writer Crumb may have put on the page anywhere, aside from his published letters. More striking for anyone but the seasoned Crumb fan: unlike previous Biblical comic adaptations, including some published and drawn by Jews, Crumb’s characters actually look Jewish, the women even more than the men. The contrast to the classic work, EC Comics’ “Picture Stories from the Bible” (1945) in that respect is most illuminating. But more recent works like the best-selling “Manga Bible” (2000) are not much different (nor was the “The Wolverton Bible” by one of the strangest of comic artists Basil Wolverton) . Close readers will see Crumb’s wife Aline Kominsky, to whom the book is dedicated, again and again, in various guises; perhaps only Chagall drew his beloved wife so often and with such varied imagination.
Not only are the characters Jewish here, they are all ages and sizes. If, for instance, there are more drawings of Jewish elders in any single volume of comic art anywhere, I have never seen them. The women here are beautiful when young, heavily busted with large, muscular thighs. The men are strong, their beards full and noble. The deity has a really big beard and retains his notoriously bad temper, as well as his commanding presence, and absolute demand for loyalty. The animals of Genesis (in Noah’s ark and elsewhere) may be where Crumb is most similar to earlier comic art adaptations of Biblical texts, but they are drawn, like everything else, with such loving care that they are special and demand repeated viewing.
In those extensive notes at the end, Crumb comes as close as he is ever likely to revealing the sources and depth of his commitment to the text. He had been puzzling, no doubt under a wave of feminist criticism, about the gender struggle, until Torah scholar Savina Teubel’s “Sarah the Priestess” (1984) gave him new insight: a matriarchal background, female deities and actual female power, in a society turning toward patriarchy but retaining some elements of women’s prehistorical strength and centrality to the direction of early civilization. If anything is reinterpreted purposefully in “Genesis, ” it is in gender, and Crumb does so not by scoring points but by rearranging the visual subtext. Gender issues also help him reframe somewhat the class dimension of tribal society, which endures not through brute force but because of the strength of its women.
The commentary on his visual choices and his broader interpretations explores and explains his few intentional deviations, not only in the name of narrative clarity but artistic intent. Mainly, his notes drive home how he struggled to interpret the text in suitable graphic form, chapter by chapter, sometimes even character by character. There is no doubting the artist’s integrity or hard work, in no small part because he redrew again and again, trying to find historically accurate clothing and scenery. The Old Testament of cinematic Charlton Heston, so to speak, became the Genesis of lived and perceived experience, socially real and super-real. Clues are provided with translations of specific Hebrew names within the visual text, essentially metaphorical in meaning. These clues may be the closest to footnotes that Crumb has ever provided.
Comics scholar Jeet Heer, has noted in “Bookforum” that Crumb’s biblical characters, with the exception of the deity, have no internal lives: only the deity has depth and personality. As with the original text, much more is implied in Crumb’s visual text than can be stated, because scenes rush by so fast and because the artist forever works out, pen or brush in hand, a unique meaning that escapes easy interpretation. Even closer to the mark, Heer argues that above all, this is a book about bodies, the natural expression of an artist whose work has, possibly more than any other master of comic art, been concerned with body structure and expression.
And offending the deity? Crumb treads with a caution all the more remarkable for an artist, who, short decades ago, allowed himself the full run of his imagination, heedless of the consequences. Crumb’s innovation might be summed up in his characterization of Joseph, brilliant in subjugating Egypt but weary of his own powers. In the final phrases of the book, the artist suggests a radical view several thousand years previous to Jewish Karl Marx. “In the very last chapter, when his obstreperous brothers fling themselves at this feet and proclaim, ‘Here we are, your slaves, ’ he says to them, “I am not God, am I’ Joseph has learned a much finer humility than the fear-driven kind shown by his barbaric brothers.” So says a humble Crumb.

10/22/09

poem by Gershon Hepner
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I don't ever balk at being considered a Motown person, because Motown is the greatest musical event that ever happened in the history of music.

quote by Smokey Robinson
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Weekend Love

[Queen Latifah]
Weekend love
Gonna spend a weekend love
Weekend love
Just a case of weekend love
[Queen Latifah]
Have you been misled
Anything I said
Didn't mean to turn you on
The bite is oh so strong
You got things to do
But I have got things too
So I'll catch you on the weekend
Mondays to Fridays I don't see you then
[Unknown Reggae Artist]
A W-E-E-K and a E-N-D
And a L-O-V-E we were meant to be
A W-E-E-K, a E-N-D
L-O-V-E we were meant to be
[Queen Latifah]
Weekend love
Gonna spend a weekend love
Weekend love
Just a case of weekend love
[Queen Latifah]
Seems it's been so long
Since you thrilled me with your charms
I tenderly imagine me
Resting in your arms
You've got things to do
And I have got things too
So I'll catch you on the weekend
Mondays to Fridays, I don't see you then
[Unknown Reggae Artist]
Because we're sorry when we part
And we love when we meet
I know we only do that ?
Once in a week
Sorry when we part
And we love when we meet
I know we only do that ?
Once in a week
[Unknown Reggae Artist]
I know, you know
We all occupied
From our own love life
This has been denied
Many feelins high
Many tears of pride
But by the weekend

[...] Read more

song performed by Queen Latifah
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Creative Perceptions

Artist appropriate palette prepares
as poet intuitive channels and shares -
perceptions highlighted in paint or in rhyme,
on screen, paper, canvas, [b]rushed, touched outside Time.
Each reaches out writing, foresighting, prepares
stalls [f]rigid for music of spirit sublime.
But few can interpret the talent they praise
in the style of an artist in true paraphrase.

(24 September 2005 robi03_1306)

Bridgework
Artists palette, paints, prepare,
poets channel insight rare.
One canvas fills, one paper inks,
imagination interlinks.

Each respective stream compares
perceptions, self-respecting, thinks
perspectives sensitively, shares
intuitive fruition, links
symphonic patterns, well aware
individuals everywhere
sense beauty way beyond time's brink -
horizons widen, never shrink.

Images accompany
free originality.

(7 May 2008 variant of As Artist, Poet robi03_1396_robi03_0986 16 February 2002 robi03_0986 and also variant of Creative Perceptions
24 September 2005 robi03_1306_robi03_0986)

As Artist, Poet
As artists palette, paints, prepare
so poets channel insight rare.
One canvas fills, one paper inks,
the foremost and the least of links.

Both tune respective streams, compare
perspective, sensitively share
where, true to self there neither sinks
as each through intuitions thinks
the way to harmony, aware
that perfect strangers anywhere
may beauty sense beyond time's brink -
horizons widen, never shrink.

Both pictures form, accompany
creative thrust with spirit free.

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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The First Artist and Author.

The first artist painted the sky with colors, such beauty,

Look at those sunsets, and the mountains, such reality;

The mountains, have shadows, of splendor that only the Master can do,

Yes! It's God who was the first Artist, and He also taught me too.

The first great artist painted the colors on the sea,

Blues, greens, aquas, Only one could do this you see;

And when there is a storm near, the sea goes so dark blue,

Yes! God is the first great artist, to paint it for me and you.

The first great Artist, loved to teach David to write poetry,

And also king Solomon, writing words of such beauty;

Oh such magnificent works, of color and in each word,

Yes! There is only one who could do this it is the Lord.

Then. We see in every rainbow, and in each shell as well,

Look at the colored sands, and in every bird, it does tell;

Then look at each animal, and also the petals of each flower too

Then as you look at these, , give Thanks for doing it for me and you.

poem by Margaret Haig
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When is a Painting Finished?

I paint.
On my easel
pictures in oil and acrylic grow
like stalagmites in limestone caves.

I think that painting is a magical act
that transforms invisible thoughts
and feelings into visible colors
and forms.

But I never can tell
when is the work finished.
After all it is always possible
to change a line, a hue, or a color
or even the whole composition.

Painters have different opinions
about this.

Some say that when the artist
successfully planted
all the details onto the canvas
the image expresses itself
as a severed autonomous entity,
which frees the painter from
the task of continuing to paint.
From then on the painting gains
an independent inner life of its own.

However, abandoning a work of art
involves a moral decision
ripened by the stiffening tension
between skill, creativity and integrity.
At what point does the polished image
meet the artist’s expectations?

And then, even if it does,
no single image can express
all that an artist wants to show,
and consequently his muses
compel him to carry on with his work
and create more paintings.

Hence the oeuvre of the artist
evolves as a set of different images
of the same single thrust and grind.

Many years ago I was wandering
through the countryside
of southern France in Provence.

[...] Read more

poem by Paul Hartal
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Suzy Greenberg

Little Suzy Greenberg, with her head caved in.
Soon to let me drown beneath the undertow.
Aughta put that woman in a looney bin,
Cause you know I'd really like to be a part of her show!
Suzy is an artist - she paints quite a lot.
An artist she may be, but a genius she is not.
She says she wants to be a sociologist,
But she better first get checked by a neurologist.
Chorus
Suzy, Suzy, Suzy, Suzy
Suzy, Suzy Greenberg
Suzy, Suzy, Suzy, Suzy
Suzy, Suzy Greenberg
Suzy's 'bout as faithful as a slot machine.
Pays off once in a while, then she robs you clean.
She's always afraid that she's not sure what she's worth.
She's out of her mind, and she's not of this Earth.
Woman walks the streets like she's queen of the town.
Doesn't talk very much, she's very profound!
Little Suzy Greenberg's always playing a game.
Since the day we first met, she's probably forgot my name!
Chorus x2
Little Suzy Greenberg, with her head caved in.
Soon to let me drown beneath the undertow.
Aughta put that woman in a looney bin,
Cause you know I'd really like to be a part of her show!
Suzy is an artist - she paints quite a lot.
An artist she may be, but a genius she is not.
She says she wants to be a sociologist,
But she better first get checked by a neurologist.
Chorus x2

song performed by Phish
Added by Lucian Velea
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One Word More

To E. B. B.

I

There they are, my fifty men and women
Naming me the fifty poems finished!
Take them, Love, the book and me together:
Where the heart lies, let the brain lie also.

II

Rafael made a century of sonnets,
Made and wrote them in a certain volume
Dinted with the silver-pointed pencil
Else he only used to draw Madonnas:
These, the world might view—but one, the volume.
Who that one, you ask? Your heart instructs you.
Did she live and love it all her life-time?
Did she drop, his lady of the sonnets,
Die, and let it drop beside her pillow
Where it lay in place of Rafael's glory,
Rafael's cheek so duteous and so loving—
Cheek, the world was wont to hail a painter's,
Rafael's cheek, her love had turned a poet's?

III

You and I would rather read that volume,
(Taken to his beating bosom by it)
Lean and list the bosom-beats of Rafael,
Would we not? than wonder at Madonnas—
Her, San Sisto names, and Her, Foligno,
Her, that visits Florence in a vision,
Her, that's left with lilies in the Louvre—
Seen by us and all the world in circle.

IV

You and I will never read that volume.
Guido Reni, like his own eye's apple
Guarded long the treasure-book and loved it.
Guido Reni dying, all Bologna
Cried, and the world cried too, "Ours, the treasure!"
Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.

V

Dante once prepared to paint an angel:
Whom to please? You whisper "Beatrice."
While he mused and traced it and retraced it,

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from Men and Women (1855)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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